Maggie always said patience was my virtue, as if good qualities were something to be divvied out in a marriage, along with the weekly chores. I can see her now, waiting for a text or an email or a guest, one knee jiggling up and down on the sofa, the other stilled under my palm as I try to calm her down. So much energy compressed into such a small person. I often wondered how she didn’t exhaust herself entirely, worrying about everyone and everything. I never wanted to change her; I just wanted to make sure that all that nervous energy didn’t get her tied up in knots so tight that even I couldn’t unpick them. I had forty years of success in that regard, and now here we are. It’s never too late for things to change.
Above my head, the clock releases an extra-heavy tick as it announces the hour. Being kept waiting this long cannot be a good sign. Maggie would know. Four decades as a nurse and she would surely have a good handle on her own diagnosis. That and the sheer volume of hospital dramas she consumes. “Awful tachycardia,” she would tell me with great confidence as we sat side by side on the settee on a Saturday evening in front of the latest episode, reaching across for the remote and amending the volume to compete with the sound of her own commentary. “Shame, though, such a young man to be found that ill . . . It does always seem to affect those city-slicker types, doesn’t it? Awful stress they put up with every day . . .”
“Professor Hobbs?” A doctor is standing in front of me with his hand extended.
“Yes, yes, that’s me,” I say, beginning to rise from my seat. There is something sharply efficient about this doctor that radiates from the slick parting in his hair all the way down to the shine on his shoes. Even his name badge is pinned perfectly parallel to the seam at the bottom of his shirt pocket. I suddenly feel very aware of my own appearance and redundantly run a hand through my hair.
“I’m Dr. Singh, the consultant in charge of your wife’s care. Could you come with me, please?”
I follow him back through the double doors, and for one hopeful moment, I imagine I am being taken to Maggie. Instead, I am ushered into a side room opposite the lobotomy bays and feel the final dregs of my wishful thinking sink away. The doctor takes a seat at the computer and gestures me toward the other chair as he starts the machine and shuffles through a wedge of papers on the corner of the desk. A freestanding fan behind him tickles at the edges of the loose documents.
“Sorry. Bit hot today, eh? No idea when this will break.”
I feel the doctor’s understatement in the sweat that is beginning to pool under my arms. I don’t have the strength to make even a halfhearted remark about the weather and look down at my feet instead.
His computer burbles to life, covering up my awkwardness. After a minute or so, he exhales. “Professor Hobbs, I will cut straight to it. The prognosis is not good. When your wife arrived here last night, her central nervous system was shutting down. Fortunately, the paramedics managed to secure her airway, which was a feat, given how long she might have been unconscious by the time she was found. However, it is still too early to say what the effects of the oxygen deprivation will be. For now, she is in an induced coma. Once we have a clearer idea of the extent of the damage we can look at all our options, with your input, of course . . .”
This is my cue to speak. I have missed enough of those this past year, but I still know by rote the signs that come with it—the querying eyebrow, the tilted head, the impatient throat-clearing. The doctor settles for the latter.
“Ah, Professor Hobbs, I can appreciate how difficult this is for you, but please rest assured that we are doing all we possibly can for your wife. In the meantime, there are resources at your disposal. Our family-support team has—”
“I don’t need family support,” I cut in, my voice coming out hoarser than I remember, quieter too.
“Well, yes, Professor, I agree that it is not for everyone. I see from your records that you have had a referral before? To the support team here? Not followed up on . . .”
He looks up from his screen, and I reach for my glasses. I take one of my loose shirttails and begin to rub at the smears across the lenses, although I am not sure that I am improving the situation. “An avoidance tactic,” as Maggie always put it. She was right about that.
“Look, it is not for me to say what you should do. I can’t force you to see them. Just, well, bear it in mind, Professor? They are here for you and available twenty-four/seven. We see situations like this more often than you would think, and they are specially trained . . . The important thing is that you know you are not alone here.”
The irony. That is exactly it. I am alone. More alone than ever before. More alone even than before Maggie, because how can you truly know what it is like to be alone until you have felt complete?
“As I say, there is little we can do at this stage beyond observe Mrs. Hobbs’s progress, so we would advise you to return home at some point for some sleep, some food. First, though, if you would like to see her, we can bring you to your wife now.”
“Yes,” I murmur. “Yes, yes, I need to see her.”
“Professor, I’m sure I don’t need to reiterate this, but we do so to all relatives: your wife is in a very delicate state. Please do not be alarmed at how she looks, and if you have any concerns at all, please don’t hesitate to let myself or one of the nurses know. We have kept her in a private room for the time being, but there are a lot of staff around, should there be any problems.”
The doctor begins to stand, and I follow suit, knowing all too well that it takes a little longer these days but not wanting to draw his attention to my sixty-seven years any more than is strictly necessary. Do they give up earlier if they feel you are too old? If you don’t have enough grieving children at your side? For Maggie’s sake, I hope not.
I accompany the doctor out, filing past the queues of walking wounded, down a corridor of discarded wheelchairs and hurrying, harried staff navigating the endless complexities of eye contact with relatives. I wonder which other families are greeting their worst nightmares today. Soon, the curtained bays peter out and the doctor swipes us through to intensive care. Beyond, there is a series of single doors, each one with a metal handle to depress.
Maggie is behind one of them. I can tell by the way the doctor slows, reaches up to check he has his pager, looks left and right. I want to say “No,” pinning his arms to his sides and holding him stock-still. But what difference would that make in the long run? I cannot avoid facing up to what I have done forever. I try to tuck my shirt in as best I can and then shove my hands deep into my pockets to stop them from shaking.
There is a quiet click as he pushes the door open with both hands. He goes through, holding it ajar for me, only my shoulders are broader than he has calculated and there is an awkward moment when I have to shunt sideways to follow him, bending my head as I do so but still managing to knock it against the top of the door frame. I have never quite got the hang of being the tallest person in any given room.
At first, in the dim lighting of the room, it is difficult to make Maggie out. The bed is elevated and surrounded by an arsenal of machinery clunking away. It is hard to believe her life now relies on a machine not altogether dissimilar from the dehumidifier I would heave down from the attic on Maggie’s instruction for its annual winter stint in the cellar. I move closer, and as my eyes adjust to the half-light, I feel a breath catch in my throat. It exhales as a low moan that clearly concerns the doctor.